Searching with a Sword
by bgerk
Summary: Gunnard, a goods peddler and useless with a blade, is thrown into the crisis in Skyrim, just as dragons have begun to raid Nord settlements. Will he be able to find out where he fits in the emerging chaos?
1. A Sword that Needs No Sharpening

'I used to be an adventurer like you,' the guard said jovially, leaning against the gatehouse wall, arms akimbo 'but then I took an arrow to the-'

'Don't tell me,' Gunnard muttered, busying himself adjusting the girth of his mule's tack 'to the knee, yes?'

The guard paused, and slowly swung the face-plate of his helmet up. A weathered, smiling face, thickly moustached with greying stubble was revealed. What was also revealed was the man's right eye; milky-white with glaucoma, rough scar tissue webbed across the socket.

'Not quite.'

Gunnard paused, preparing an apology, but the guard merely took off the helmet and rubbed at some hitherto unnoticed smear on the gleaming steel.

'Don't worry about it lad. Guarding in Helgen is so easy that I could do it blind and one-armed. The Stormcloaks don't stray into the Southern Passes from the Rift often, especially not at this time of year. People in these parts are too busy with the harvest to bother keeping the old grievances going, for a little while at least. And for everything else in a guard's life, one eye serves well enough.'

Gunnard began to arrange saddlebags and panniers, filling them up with the skins and dried meats he had bought the day before from the trappers in the surrounding mountains. 'Well, in truth, I'm no adventurer. I'm a peddler – trouble and I are, I thank the Eight, not closely acquainted.'

The guard pointed to the scabbard that hung from Gunnard's belt.

'But you look like you've got a good weapon there. It's a shame to waste it, no?'

'This? This is my father's blade.'

'Ah!' the guard said reverentially 'And what did he do with that? Did he make his living cutting down bandits and footpads for bounties? Did he protect his farm from goblins and wild beasts, or defeat a challenger for your mother's hand?'

Gunnard shrugged. 'Mostly he cut down a practice dummy at the city barracks. He was a tavern keeper down south, but liked to keep his sword-arm in practice. It's useful for the odd job, and I don't know how else I would use it. I'm not much of a swordsman.'

The guard held out his hand. Reluctantly, Gunnard drew the sword and passed it to the older man, who weighed it thoughtfully, examined the blade with care and took a few practice swipes, which were accompanied by a satisfying whirring sound.

'I feel a bit of a fraud really, carrying it around,' Gunnard went on, by way of something to say 'but I suppose it's better to have it than not-'

The guard whirled around and brought the blade down on a heavy baulk of timber that lay by the guardhouse door. There was a crunch as the sword embedded itself deep in the wood. The guard braced one foot on it and tugged the sword free with a grunt of exertion. Gunnard stood still, looking wonderingly at this mad old man.

'Not even dulled,' the guard said thoughtfully 'How often do you sharpen this blade?'

'Sharpen it?' Gunnard flinched slightly as the man looked up sharply at him 'Oh, I…not for a while now. Er. Last year? Perhaps? Is that bad?'

The guard smiled again and winked, as if to say, 'you really don't know a lot about swords, do you?'

Gunnard received the sword back, feeling a little foolish. He checked the straps once last time, then gathered up the loose ends of the mule's bridle. The guard unlocked the gate and stood to one side to let him pass. As Gunnard did so, the guard beamed at him.

'Take it from me, a sword that needs no sharpening is a valuable thing indeed. Use it well, and it'll look after you. Think on that.'

Gunnard was about to reply when a shout came up from a nearby watchtower.

'They've captured Ulfric Stormcloak! The traitor of Skyrim is in Imperial hands!'

Gunnard watched, rooted to the spot, as the cart bearing Ulfric Stormcloak and a dejected group of his followers trundled past him through the gate. The guard had vanished in the commotion that greeted them. Unnoticed, Gunnard and his mule crept away from the settlement and onto the road, and soon Helgen was lost among the pine trees of the forest.

As he walked, Gunnard's confusion and embarrassment gave way to annoyance. How that old man had the gall to try to teach him a lesson about his own sword, he couldn't understand. Just because he hadn't noticed that it never needed sharpening, did that make him an imbecile? Certainly not; it just meant he had more on his mind than swords and shields and bloodlust, unlike every other Nord. By the Eight, how he missed Cyrodiil, with its cosmopolitan culture and good opportunities for trade. Even with all the problems of the last few centuries, a man could still make money there. Here, it was barely enough to keep body and soul together…

Something else occurred to him. He stopped, the mule patiently stopping with him. He drew the sword and looked at it, testing the edge with his thumb. A sword that needs no sharpening is a valuable thing eh? Well well well…

This could be a stroke of luck. If what the old guard had said was true, this sword must be worth a good deal. He could go to Whiterun, sell the wretched thing and join a caravan heading back to the Imperial City. In fact, if he were lucky enough (or if the sword was worth enough) he might be able to set himself up as a merchant there. His mind coloured with images of salutations exchanged with his fellow citizens, a town house, a prosperous business, fine clothes, plenty of food…

Well, that was decided. He'd go to Whiterun, that big smelly midden of a place (hardly to be called a city at all) and sell the sword. An excellent plan. He started forward excitedly, replaying those images in his mind.

The mule whickered softly at his back. The sweeping of a shadow across his path made him look up suddenly.


	2. The Kindness of Strangers

When recounting the story later, Gunnard would say he first remembered the unbearable heat. Then, the noise of roasting pine trees, the cones popping and sap boiling in the trunks, as they cracked and splintered and flame licked from branch to branch. And, through the gathering smoke, the roaring of the monster that had landed with a crash that shattered the cobblestones – an echoing bellow that shook through Gunnard from the feet and ended up ringing around his head. He stared up the creature, as it turned to fix a glowing eye on him. There was a stillness suddenly, as man and beast watched each other, broken only by the crackle of the pine trees and frightened braying of the mule.

The scrape of the creature's claws rang out on stones, and Gunnard, on an impulse, turned and threw himself into the undergrowth beside the road. He rolled over in the dirt, the sword held out in front of him. The creature lunged at the shrieking mule, snatching it up and throwing it in the air. With a horrible reptilian swallow, the mule disappeared down the scaly throat.

With a triumphant bellow, the creature spread its wings and took off, circling around over the site of its feeding and gliding off in the direction that Gunnard had come.

Slowly, fearfully, Gunnard crept out of the shelter of the vegetation. The road was scattered with the contents of his saddlebags, pelts and joints of dried meat lying among the burned branches and blackened pine needles. A great crimson splash of the mule's blood was beginning to drip downhill, trickling into the cracked cobblestones. Another great roar split the air, and Gunnard looked back in a panic, thinking the beast was back again. To the north, where Helgen lay, smoke was beginning to billow up into the sky.

Gunnard turned, and broke into a stumbling run through the forest. Increasingly, the paralysis of his fear gave way to sheer, blind terror. He began to run faster and faster, bushes and tall grasses whipping at his legs and small animals and birds rocketing out of his way. He registered momentarily the form of a bear not more than fifty yards away (which snorted bemusedly but seemed not to think he was worth the bother of chasing) and plunged on into the undergrowth, further and further from the road and the town and the monster that he imagined even now was setting Helgen aflame. That thought made his legs pump harder and harder, using up reserves of energy that he had no idea he had-

The ground yawned up in front of him, and before he had time to think 'oh, troll turds!' he was dropping into a rocky defile. He landed with a thud in a bed of nettles, bounced to his feet, realised that he had twisted his ankle, and fell backwards into the nettles.

'Troll turds.'

The world dimmed and flickered away into blackness in front of his eyes.

* * *

><p>It was a dog barking that roused Gunnard. With a groan, he raised himself up on his elbows and opened his eyes. The hound, wisely staying away from the nettles, barked again enthusiastically, tail wagging. Night was falling, and a twilit fog was rolling down into the little fold in the earth.<p>

'Wassat? What've you found Bodan? Come here! Good boy!'

A shaggy shape loomed out of the fog and patted the dog on the head, watching Gunnard's prone body.

'You all right in there? Want me to come and drag you out?'

'Yes please!' Gunnard shouted hoarsely.

The figure moved forward, holding up a lantern. Its silhouette was disguised by the thick furs in which it was draped, which allowed it to brush through the nettles with ease. It walked around to his head, hooked two broad hands under his shoulders and started to lift him to his feet.

'My ankle!' Gunnard gasped as fresh stabs of pain erupted in his foot.

'Lean on me then, keep the weight off it. By Talos, you're in a bad way! Come on, my horse is just a little way off. You can ride with me back to the camp.'

'Thank you, you're very kind,' said Gunnard dazedly, 'My name is Gunnard.'

Gunnard hobbled off with the man, who was going a little too fast for him to keep up comfortably.

'I'm Mignund. I'm a trapper around here. My friends are back at the camp – some good soup will set you up for tomorrow. And we'll take a look at that ankle for you.'

A sturdy pony was cropping the grass in the moonlight, the carcass of a deer slung over its back and a brace of pheasants on the pommel of the saddle. Mignund helped him up, and took the pony's head, coaxing him away from his snack and guiding him back to the trail that wound in between the trees.

Gunnard found it hard to concentrate on Mignund's conversation as they plodded through the forest. He kept thinking back to everything left behind on the road. Not only all the stock he'd just bought, but the remains of his money and his change of clothes, his fur jacket and gloves (bought in advance of the coming winter) – he had nothing left but what he wore and the sword at his belt. What was he going to do now?

The light of a campfire flickered through the trees, and in a few moments Mignund and the pony had halted by its side. A few hide tents had been pitched around it, and a motley band of trappers were engaged in cooking an evening meal or skinning their prizes. They greeted Mignund gladly, and one came forward to help drag the deer off the pony and help Gunnard down.

A bowl of soup was pushed into his hands, full of juicy vegetables and tender meat. As he sipped it, a Khajiit woman pulled off the boot on his bad leg and examined the ankle. Gunnard had never felt a Khajiit's hands before – the palms and pads of the fingers and thumbs were leathery, and soft fur brushed against his skin.

'It is merely a bruise,' she said dismissively, as if disappointed that it wasn't more serious 'It will be well after a couple of days. I will give you a poultice, and Mignund will carve you a staff for walking.'

Mignund squatted down and clapped Gunnard on the shoulder, handing him a hunk of bread as he did so, 'This is Sheerah. She got separated from her caravan back in the Jeralls, and then we rescued her from bandits a few weeks ago-'

'You didn't rescue me, Mignund. You assisted me, yes. You did not rescue. And now you are assisting me to meet my caravan in Markarth.'

Mignund laughed heartily, 'That's right. She was handling herself very well when we happened across her. If you haven't seen a Khajiit disembowel a bandit using only her claws, you're missing something very special!'

Sheerah smirked, and turned away to prepare her poultice. Gunnard looked around at the other three members of the little gang; two rangy Bretons sharpening their throwing spears, and a Redguard huntress plucking away at a pile of game birds. One of the Bretons slotted the last of his spears back into its pack, and turned to Gunnard.

'I'm Bladwyr, and he's Fheain,' he said, pointing to his counterpart, who waved a spear in greeting 'and that's Anuka.' Anuka looked up, and gave Gunnard a broad grin. 'We're happy to have you with us. It's a good thing Bodan found you when he did. Wolves are moving up off the plains and into the mountains. They'll be after the herds of deer and elk that are wintering up here.'

'I'm glad he found me too!' Gunnard said, with feeling.

'Where were you coming from?' Fheain asked.

'I was on the Helgen road going to Whiterun. But I was attacked, and I ran away.'

'Attacked by what? Bandits? A wild animal?'

'No-'

'It was the dragon, wasn't it?' Anuka interrupted.

The camp fell silent. All eyes were on Gunnard.

'That's what it must have been,' he said slowly.

'Dragon!' Sheerah sneered 'There are no dragons. It is a nonsense. A fantasy!'

'It ate my mule.'

Anuka tossed the grouse she had been plucking aside. 'And then it attacked the town. I ran into a group of refugees and pointed them in the direction of Riverwood. They said that the Imperial Legion had just captured Ulfric Stormcloak, and that he called up a dragon to help him escape. Helgen has been wiped off the map.'

'And Ulfric?' Mignund asked.

'He was about to be executed, along with a band of his most dedicated followers. The people I met on the road said he escaped into the keep. He'll be well away now.'

'Bad luck for the Imperials!' Fheain jeered. Mignund stayed silent.

Sheerah tossed her head. 'It is best that we hurry on to Markarth then. If we are going to be attacked by a dragon, we might as well be inside a mountain!' She handed Gunnard the poultice as she said so, and watched as he bandaged it to his ankle.'

'What about you?' Bladwyr said, and it was a moment before Gunnard realised that the Breton was speaking to him.

'What about me?'

'Where are you going to go?'

'I was planning to go to Whiterun, and then travel back to Cyrodiil on a caravan. I think I'll do that still.' Gunnard's eyes strayed to where the sword lay in its scabbard next to him. With a dragon loose in Skyrim, he would be well-advised to get over the Jeralls before the passes closed up with snow. Who knew what would happen in the coming months?

'We can drop you in Riverwood then. Whiterun's only a day's walk from there.' Mignund told him. The big man had taken a long larch branch and was deftly carving it into a staff for Gunnard to use. Gunnard drained the dregs of his soup. Even after all the events of the day, he was beginning to feel himself again.

'You should get some sleep,' Anuka said kindly 'We'll be moving off again at dawn. You'll need all your strength for tomorrow.'

Gunnard was helped to a bedroll, and undressed in the dark of the tent. He pulled several sheepskins over himself, and lay back reflecting on his good luck, and the kindness of the hunters. The conversation outside the tent lulled as the others gradually made their own way to bed. Finally, his eyes closed, and he drifted off into blessed sleep.


	3. The Road to Whiterun

The trek to Riverwood lasted three days, with the group stopping at dusk each night to set up camp and rest. For the first day Gunnard still had to ride on the pony, but after some practice hopping round the campfire with his new staff that evening, he felt comfortable enough to walk at the same pace as the others. He and Anuka brought up the rear, loaded as they were with packs of skins, while the three other men walked ahead with a travois each, piled with meats, provisions and the tents. Sheerah led the pony, one hand at her belt ready to draw her dagger at the least provocation.

Anuka was good company, as was Bodan. He was always eager for a stick to chase or for the chance to bark at squirrels or songbirds in the branches overhead. Occasionally, he would race off into the woods and come back five or ten minutes later with a bone or a piece of carrion with which he would trot along proudly, until he lost interest and dropped it by the wayside.

Each evening, Sheerah looked again at Gunnard's ankle, and seemed pleased that it was improving so rapidly. By the third morning, he was using his staff more out of habit than necessity. Anuka and he walked at a lively pace behind the others, chatting together happily. Bodan had moved up the column, and was pacing beside Mignund, throwing hungry glances at the dried meats piled on the man's travois.

'One thing I don't understand,' Gunnard mused 'Is why none of you seem all that worried about this dragon business. I keep waking up in the night, thinking I hear it flapping through the air or crashing through the trees. Don't you?'

Anuka looked up at the sky as she considered the question. 'Well, I haven't seen a dragon yet. So I don't know how truly terrifying they are. That's not to say they aren't,' she said with a smile 'but it's hard to imagine. So I'll wait until I get in sight of one, and then decide whether or not to be frightened.'

'I can't say that it was a hard decision for me.'

'Remember too that we're a small and mobile group, not a village or a town like Helgen. Whatever the dragons want, they're not going to get it from us. Maybe that'll make us safer.'

'There was only one of me,' Gunnard stated bitterly 'well, me and the mule.'

'Will you miss your mule?'Anuka asked, smiling wryly.

'I'll miss what he could carry. And he didn't cause any trouble, not like ones I've had before. And he could be good company on the road.'

'I don't think I want to know!' Anuka smiled and nudged him to show she was joking.

'Sheerah's right about Markarth though,' she added 'even the towns with stone walls have houses made of wood. Markarth is almost entirely underground, there are high watchtowers, Dwemer war machines – if anywhere is going to withstand a dragon attack, it's that city.'

'It's a pity about the stone beds, the lack of windows, and the fumes from the ore smelters! At least, that's what I've heard.'

'Exactly right. And then there's the Forsworn-'

'Who are the Forsworn?' Gunnard asked hesitantly, and then noticed that everyone else had stopped.

They had come out of the forest on top of a small ridge above a river that foamed white below them. On the other side, a small mountain range swept up, crowned with peaks and old ruins silhouetted by the setting sun. Mignund pointed to the east, where wood smoke curled up lazily into the late afternoon air.

'Riverwood lies over there, less than an hour away. You should go to the Riverwood Trader, mention my name. Lucan Valerius is a grumbler, but he'll do me a favour in this. Then in the morning you can take the road to Whiterun.'

Gunnard said goodbye to each in turn. Sheerah handed him a knapsack in exchange for the pack he had been carrying.

'There is a salve that will ease any further discomfort. There is some dried meat and mead as well, to tide you over on the road ahead. May it not stretch too long.'

Mignund clapped Gunnard on the back, causing him to stagger a little.

'You'll be all right. I won't say make haste to Whiterun, but supposing that dragon comes further down from the mountains, you'd be well advised to be somewhere with walls and plenty of guards.'

Mignund looked at Bodan, who was sniffing around the pack that Gunnard had lowered to the ground.

'Tell you what. Take Bodan with you. You'll need a friend to watch your back on the road.'

'I can't do that. Won't you need a dog with you when you go hunting next?'

'We'll be passing through Falkreath Hold. They breed the best hunting dogs in Skyrim; I'll pick one up there. He's a good dog, but he's too undisciplined and always snuffling around the meats. But he's loyal and brave. He'll look after you!'

Mignund knelt down and looked into the dog's eyes, which continued to stray unerringly to the piled meats.

'Gunnard is your master now, Bodan. You've been a good friend to me, and a loyal hound. But you want to eat what you catch, and that's no good to me!'

He laughed, and turned to follow the others that were trailing down the hill to the road heading west. Bodan sat watching them, tail slowly losing its wag. He barked and whined miserably, watching the little group until they were finally lost to sight, masked by a mound of boulders at the turn in the road.

He looked up at Gunnard, who fished out a piece of dried goat meat and proffered it to the dog.

'Come on then boy. Let's get under cover before nightfall, eh?'

Gunnard turned and walked down the hill to the road, and after a minute or so he heard the dog's pattering down after him. Bodan fell into step beside him, still chewing on the piece of meat. As they journeyed, Bodan's mood appeared to improve; he chased a couple of songbirds that hopped and took flight as he approached, barking excitedly. Other than the odd appearance of deer or small animals, the road was quiet all the way to Riverwood.

Gunnard had passed through Riverwood on his way to the Whiterun plains before, but had never stayed in the town. It was a clutch of about two dozen or so cottages, with a forge, a watermill, an inn, and the trader that Mignund had pointed him to. The guards were on the point of shutting the gates as he approached, and waved him and the dog through.

In the town square where the forge, trader, and inn faced each other on either side, a group of perhaps thirty people were gathered in makeshift shelters with goats and dogs scattered around them. There were even two little girls clutching and fussing over pet rabbits. Gunnard stopped a guard who was heading to his barracks.

'Who are all these people?'

'Refugees from Helgen. They've been here for the last day or so – these are just the ones who don't have friends or family in the town. They'll be moving on to Whiterun soon – Jarl Balgruff has offered shelter for those who have lost their homes and have nowhere else to go.'

'Don't they worry that the dragon will come here too?'

'Maybe it will, maybe it won't. But we have the river for putting out fires, and plenty of willing hands with bows and swords, so we think we'll be able to drive it off. Riverwood won't be the next Helgen, I can guarantee you that.'

Gunnard moved off past the camp and walked over to the Riverwood Trader. Torches were being lit as he knocked on the door, casting a waxy yellow light in the square.

The door opened sharply and a sour-faced Imperial with a straggly little beard looked out.

'I've told you lot, I'm closed for the night. You'll have to wait till the morning to buy food. Don't you Helgen folk have any manners? Just because a dragon made your town into a roast doesn't give you the right to be rude!'

'Lucan Valerius?'

'What's it to you?'

'Mignund sent me, he told me you might give me a bed for the night?'

Lucan opened the door wide and stood in the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest defiantly.

'Did he really! Typical Nord impudence! And why should I let you and your smelly dog sleep in my house? Eh? Answer me that!'

'It's only for one night,' Gunnard pleaded 'I'll be off to Whiterun tomorrow.'

'Then you can kip on some hay at the stables by the inn. No rooms left there. And no room here!'

A female voice, heavy with the overtones of a weary family member, spoke from inside.

'Oh Lucan, stop being such a miser. Mignund will be happy to know we helped his friend, and friends are valuable in times like these. Besides, you've had a lot of luck with strangers today!'

Lucan stared at Gunnard. 'Seems my sister has a typically soft heart. I'll need to send her to a doctor. Fine, come in. But the dog can stay outside!'

Gunnard gave Bodan another piece of meat, and the dog settled himself under the porch of the house. Lucan's sister Camilla came forward to take Gunnard's pack, placing it down by a shelf of merchandise.

'Have you eaten? There's some stew left if you'd like it.'

'Thank you. I can swap you some dried meat for the bed, if you'd like.'

Lucan perked up at this suggestion, but Camilla gave him a look.

'Don't worry about it, it's no trouble. Here, some stew and some bread. Would you like some ale?'

Lucan muttered under his breath. Gunnard thought he heard 'first my claw goes missing, now beggars show up at my door' but forgot about it as Camilla handed him a tankard of ale.

Gunnard ate quickly, wanting to escape Lucan's beady, begrudging eyes. Once he had finished, Camilla showed him upstairs. The first floor of the house was divided into two bedrooms for the brother and sister.

'You can have Lucan's bed for the night,' Camilla said 'It won't make him any angrier than he is already.'

'Where will he sleep?'

'There's a couch in his study – I'll give him some cushions and there's an old sheepskin. He'll be all right. Sleep well!'

Gunnard heard Camilla going downstairs, and soon he heard Lucan's complaints as his sister informed him of the night's sleeping arrangements. He pushed the curtain over the window aside to look down at the little camp below. The light from the torches flickered on the sleeping people and animals. He hoped some of them would be moving on in the morning, so that he might have some company on the road other than his new dog. He settled himself on the bed, pulled up the furs and blankets and drifted off to sleep.

He rose out of his drowsiness at the noise of the door downstairs opening and Lucan's voice grumpily demanding who was there. There was a murmur of conversation, Lucan's voice again, which sounded pleased and grateful, and the clinking of coins. Gunnard heard the door shut, and Lucan chuckling to himself, and then silence once more.

* * *

><p>In the morning, Lucan appeared to be in a much better mood. He offered Gunnard a slab of bread with butter and a mug of milk as he came down from the upper level.<p>

'I'm sorry if I was rude last night. It was late, and I was just…well, let's forget about it,' he said, looking over Gunnard's pack.

'This will never do, all this meat. You'll get a stomach ache. We have some late summer fruits in stock, and vegetables, and bread. Let me give you some…'

Gunnard looked wonderingly at Camilla as Lucan bustled off to supplement his pack. She smiled and pointed at the golden ornament lying on the counteer, a large elaborately wrought claw, as explanation.

Soon, Gunnard said goodbye to the newly genial Lucan and set off with Camilla through the town to the bridge that led to the Whiterun road. A couple of Helgen families were making their way there too.

'Lucan's a capricious fellow,' she mused 'An adventurer came in last night with his silly claw, and now he's all sweetness and light. An interesting fellow incidentally, that one. I walked him to the bridge that leads to Bleak Fall's Barrow, up there.' She pointed at some ruins that stood out from the silhouette of the mountain.

'Well, he's give me some luck. I have to admit, I was not looking forward to eating dried meat for the next few weeks.'

They stopped at the other side of the bridge, where Camilla said goodbye and wished him a pleasant journey. 'I hope you'll drop in on us again when you retrace your steps to Cyrodiil. I can't guarantee that Lucan will be in a good mood, but I think you'll be assured of a bed again if you need it.'

Gunnard thanked her warmly, and walked quickly to catch up with the travellers ahead of him. He fell into step with them as they reached the bend in the road, and looked back to see Camilla walking slowly to Riverwood. Then, he turned back, and looked at the road that wound down the side of the foothills beside the river that gushed forth to the tundra plains. In the distance, just visible through the morning mist, was the rock of Whiterun, that sheared up out of the grassy landscape. He followed the band of travellers, Bodan trotting by his side.


End file.
